


Beneath x Blood

by brocon



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Breeding Kink Mention, Drug Use, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Infidelity, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Parent/Child Incest, Rimming, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Torture, Zoldycks Being Zoldycks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-12-30 02:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18306824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocon/pseuds/brocon
Summary: Silva was overworked, injured, and a bit intoxicated when he thought the pale shoulder and long black hair he'd kissed belonged to his wife. It was a mistake, nothing more.Illumi believes his father doesn't make mistakes.





	1. Chapter 1

Silva’s hair was a rat’s nest of tangles, his clothing stank of sweat, and he had a throbbing laceration on his right thigh that he’d barely managed to close off with a strand of Nen-strengthened hair and a sewing needle. Because of an ability it refused to coagulate, so it was still seeping blood into the tattered shirt he’d taken from one of their bodies and tied around his leg.

It had been a rough seventy-two hours.

Almost none of the information he’d been given had been correct. If he’d known how many Double Star Hunters would be involved, he and Zeno would have taken it together. Hell, if he’d known that many Double Star Hunters would be involved, he may have turned it down. He wasn’t certain if the client had been unaware of the level of security around the target or if it was something more sinister, but he would be paying the price difference unless he wanted to become the new target.

He was cranky, but he felt he had a right to be. He’d spent the last twelve hours, after eliminating the target, holed up in the back of an abandoned van parked in an alley, waiting for his body to recover enough blood and strength to haul himself towards home. His phone had been smashed to bits in the struggle, he was left with no way to call his family.

By the time he finally healed up enough to make it home it was just after three in the morning, everyone else asleep but the butlers on shift (and perhaps Milluki.) While telling himself it was wise to get himself stitched up, cleaned up, and go directly to sleep, he stumbled into their lounge bar and sat down, needing something to calm his nerves.

He and Zeno were the only ones who ever hung out in here, but it was past the old man’s bedtime. He was incredibly strict about his bedtime, which wasn’t at all how he’d been when Silva was a boy. They would always stay up talking until the early morning sun threw light across the bar.

The butlers became aware of his arrival the moment he’d come to the gate; by the time he made it up to the manor, the lounge bar was heated, lit, and fully-manned. A whiskey highball was waiting for him when he sat down at the bar, but he needed something stronger.

“Would you like your wound cleaned and properly dressed, Master Silva?”

Ah. Somehow that was the least of his desires right now. How irresponsible. It was a good thing his children were shut away in their rooms, unable to see how their father faltered and craved poor decisions as much as the next man. It was nights like these that he wanted to forget he was a Zoldyck, forget he was a father, forget that he was any more than a simple man who was sick of his shitty job.

He was overworked. When he laid in bed at night with a sober mind, his brain was wracked with all of the mistakes he’d made in his life. Mistakes like tonight.

Shaking his head, he gave the wordless signal for the Keffeld drug. The face of his butler didn’t falter, didn’t judge, just looked briefly at his bleeding leg before bowing and going back into the storage room behind the bar. When he returned, he dropped a blue, effervescent pill into Silva’s whiskey.

He knocked it back in one gulp, not having to wait long for the effects to sweep him off his consciousness.

As a boy, he’d been through as many immunity trainings as Killua and was immune to everything in current circulation forty years ago. The self-destructive nature of human beings kept inventing more drugs, more strains that they had to immunize themselves to every three years or so. Even just gaining the amount of each new fad drug that it took to build their immunities was a massive investment, a gross amount of money that was unfortunately necessary for upkeep.

At least, that’s how he justified it when he chose not to bother becoming immune to Keffeld. It was expensive, with a massive high that lasted hours with minimal negative side-effects. In fact, it happened to give him energy when he was running low, at least for a bit. It was hard to imagine a situation in which not being immune to Keffeld could compromise him. It was much more important to ensure he remained immune to poisons and tranquilizers than recreational substances.

His leg felt better instantly, the warmth of the blood soaked into the shirt tatters felt pleasant. The lights of the lounge mashed together into a shining trinket, the butler serving him took his glass away and placed it in the sink, the clink loud enough to startle him.

There was a giddiness in the pit of his stomach, an incredible mood he hadn’t felt since the last time he’d caved. He laughed aloud, thinking about his own stupid ass squatting in a van, bleeding and sulking and thinking of revenge. Unprofessional. How far away that man seemed now. Nothing else mattered except feeling good and being the man of his own castle, admiring the massive home he lived in that catered to his tastes. Five children and a wife.

Oh.

It was like touching a carving in a dark cave, but his flaky memory told him that last time he’d been this way, Kikyo had made it even better. She’d been so kind, happy to have her husband smiling at her again like a boy. They’d behaved like they were young again, her slender body pressed to him eagerly. “Where’s my wife?” He asked, completely forgetting what time it was. “Where’s Kikyo?”

“I believe she is in your bedroom, Sir.” He said, a small smile tugging at his lips. His name was like water in a sieve. “It is quite late.”

“Of course,” he said dumbly. Silva was predictable. He didn’t care that he was predictable, he just wanted his wife, wanted to feel her skin, unbelievably soft even as she got older. How she managed to still stay so youthful was a mystery she always coyly said was a _lady’s secret_. It drove him wild.

But when he got to his feet he nearly stumbled.

He was across the room in a second, even though he could have sworn he had just been on the barstool and that his bad leg was slowing him down. This wasn’t his normal pace. Actually, _where was he?_ A bar, clearly. At his home. The passage of time was pleasantly skewed as well.

When he stepped out of the bar, he was in a long hall. The butlers all wished him a goodnight, so he knew he was facing away from them. The bar had been attached to the kitchens before the remodel and relocation. That was about five years ago. Now he didn’t remember exactly what part of his large manor it was attached to.

Ever the proud man—and primarily optimistic at the moment—he decided he didn’t need help finding his way back to his own bedroom. He wasn’t a child and he’d lived in this home his entire life; even if the halls all did look the same and there were very few identifying characteristics that could clue him in to his location, he would make it back eventually. Actually, he was content to wander around all night as long as the drug lasted, he was happy to rediscover his home stone by stone as he became more and more lost.

But soon enough he stopped, luckily recognizing the general area he was in. _Bedroom_ , he thought, and went with his instinct, opening the next door he encountered. It was dark, quiet, and cool. A large bed with a sleeping body. Silva squinted in the doorway for a while, trying hard to remember anything at all about where he was. Being in someone’s bedroom should have been enough of a hint to help him orient himself.

But before he could further consider his surroundings, the body in the bed stirred, pale white shoulders peeking out from dark blankets. Attached to a slender, white neck with long black hair spilling out over the side of the bed. A hairline he would recognize anywhere as belonging to his beautiful wife.

That was enough to get his giddy body to react, energy surging through him with a vengeance as he pulled his clothes off, shivering slightly at the cold air assailing his skin, and crawled into bed behind her, letting her feel how excited he was on the small of her naked back. She startled slightly, but he hushed her, biting her neck hard and grinding against her. A rough hand guided her bony hip back into him, smelling her hair and getting lost in the scent. “New shampoo,” he muttered, his words garbled.

Kikyo loved these games, loved when he came in from a hard job and smelled like blood and sweat. For as much as she loved to control and whip crack and climb on top, she appreciated the masculine, animalistic way he gave it to her from behind when he was riled up. And—as he just noticed—she was sleeping naked. Which was always her sign that she missed him badly during a job and wanted him as soon as he was energetic enough to give it to her.

“I’m here,” he whispered into the delicate curve of her ear. “I’m home.”

He placed his hand on her stomach, not as soft as he remembered—but she moved out of his hand, rolling onto her stomach. A smirk tugged at his tired mouth: that was the only sign he needed. Due to paranoia about pregnancy, they’d recently been using contraception or anal sex. Didn’t matter to him either way as he reached into the nightstand and fished and fished and fished until he found a bottle. He thought he knew where and what he was looking for, but it had been shoved all the way to the back of the drawer somehow.

He’d missed the curve of her ass. Lubing up a finger, he tried to give her some prepping, listening for a moan or a whine or encouragement, but she didn’t say anything. Her shallow breathing raising and lowering her flawless back, her arms reached up and white-knuckled her pillow. She always said how large his fingers were, so he tried to be gentle, but she was accepting him so easily, breath shuddering and toes curling.

He lifted her hips to angle into her, and she stayed with her ass propped up in the air, waiting for him to give her more. She was more flexible than he remembered; he ran his thumb along the dramatic curve of her spine all the way up to the soft bottom that came up to meet his hips. _So soft._

She was _tight,_ and he was aching, the energy from the drug giving him even more virility and adrenaline. Not being able to wait a second longer, he shoved himself in. She’d forgive him—or maybe there was nothing to forgive since she wasn’t protesting or stopping him. Kikyo had no trouble expressing what she didn’t like, so it must have been good for her too.

Slamming in and out, he groaned and was thankful that their bedroom was soundproof. He knew he was being rougher than normal, something about her behavior being unnaturally submissive made him grab her hips to bruising and ram inside until he could hear her flesh slapping against his. The mother of his children, his deadly beauty was bending over for him; her soft, black hair cascading across the pillows. “Kikyo,” he growled, getting closer and closer. “ _Mine._ My Kikyo.”

He came inside her, grabbing a fistful of hair and crying out.

When he pulled out, he took her slim thigh into his hand, intending to flip her over and eat her out as thanks—but when he bent down, his leg seized with pain, laceration splitting open wider and dripping blood down onto the bed. _Shit._

Laying down instead, his head swimming and leg throbbing, he pulled her head close to his chest so she could sleep on his bicep. She always removed her visor at night but not always all of her bandages. Tonight was one of those nights, her bare temples feeling naked and vulnerable beneath his thumbs. He regretted being drugged up, too delirious to appreciate her in this rare, raw form she was in tonight. “I’m sorry,” he said into her hairline, “I’ll owe you one tomorrow. Shit. It’s worse than I thought.”

Her smooth cheek touched his chest, body moving closer until she was pressed flush against him, cold skin sapping heat from his burning flesh. Accepting his apology. She’d probably pull away from him once he fell asleep and touch herself anyway. It was hard to feel bad when he felt so good, her knee parting his thighs and resting lovingly beneath his spent cock. Blood was seeping down his leg and onto hers, he knew, but the thought only made him feel warm.

He closed his eyes, brain buzzing loudly. His exhaustion all rushed back to him at once, having defeated the drug that had given him temporary rush. He was too exhausted to even call a butler to clean and properly close his wound. “I love you,” he said, pulling her lips to his for a deep, long kiss. There was a happy hum in the back of her throat as he shoved his tongue in her mouth. “Goodnight.”

 

When he awoke, he felt like shit, but it was the regular kind of shitty feeling he got after a rough job, and he was thankful Keffeld didn’t have any additional side effects resembling a hangover. The last thing he needed was to feel even worse. He reached down to check his leg, noticing he’d thrown the covers off his body, and felt it bandaged tightly and properly, the dried blood having been scrubbed from his leg as well. Kikyo must have called a butler at some point in the night.

“Breakfast,” said a soft, masculine voice. A large tray was placed above his naked lap, cold of the metal making his thighs break out into goosebumps. She knew he disliked butlers seeing him in the full buff unless there was little choice, but it was a sweet gesture, and he had been incredibly rough with her last night.

The smell of bacon made him open his eyes. The sight of what was absolutely not his bedroom made him want to close them and never open them back up again; but instead he stared in horror, drinking in the sight of his oldest son’s bedroom—collage of needles on the wall that spelled out his name, abstract paintings hanging across the room, large alcove with silken pillows, vanity with hair products lined up meticulously.

His heart dropped into his stomach.

Maybe, he thought, that there was another explanation than the one that was hovering around the panic center of his brain. Maybe they’d moved his sleeping body into Illumi’s bed to clean the sheets after he’d bled all over them—

He made the mistake of looking down. The sheets were covered in blood. Cheeks feeling white hot, the blood drained from his face.

“Father, are you alright? I can redo the bandage if it’s too tight.”

“Illumi,” he said without looking his son in the face. What was he supposed to say to him? What _could_ he say? The only thing he knew to say when the situation was bad and one of his children were involved: “We need to talk. Sit down.”

No movement came. After a few beats, he said, “May I remain standing?”

Illumi never second-guessed his orders. That caused Silva to look up, confusion in his eyes that evolved into terror at the massive bite mark on his neck and the purple bruises creeping up his pale hips, showing even above the waistband of his pajama pants. His forearm and side were slightly crusted with Silva’s blood. His weight was shifted to one leg, favoring some invisible discomfort.

 _Jesus Christ, Silva_ , _you fucking idiot_. He’d plowed through his son. What he thought he’d done to his wife—barely prepped, shoved in like an inconsiderate, horndog of a boy—he’d done to his son. Kikyo was at least used to his size— _but Illumi_ —god, he couldn’t even think about it.

“Father?”

“Yes, remain standing if you wish.” His voice was shaking, even as he tried to steady it.

“I can wait, if you’d like. Your bacon will get cold.”

“I’m not hungry.” Tumbled out of his mouth quickly; he felt nauseous. But as he put his head in his hands, not knowing what to say to Illumi in the slightest, his stomach growled desperately. His disgusting body didn’t have the shame to suppress his appetite after he’d done something this unspeakable. He picked up his fork, trying to ignore the blood on his fingers, trying not to let himself think if the blood was all his.

Illumi stood in silence as usual, watching over him while he ate. Nothing seemed amiss with his attitude: his watchful, clingy nature was the same as it had always been. Surely Illumi realized what had happened. He was old enough to know better. And even though his memory still hazy, he could have sworn he’d called out his wife’s name at least once.

“Illumi, do you remember what I said to you—” _God, it was hard to say._ “What I said to you last night?”

He put a finger to his chin, inappropriately upbeat as always. “I couldn’t understand a lot of what you were saying, I’m sorry. It was pretty slurred.” He smiled to himself, Silva hated looking up at such a smug expression from his son. “Oh, I think I heard an ‘ _I love you,_ ’ right after you— ”

“Okay.” He interrupted loudly, bringing that to a halt as quickly as possible. When Illumi recalled something, he loved to get into every little pointless detail, chattering on and on to himself as if no one else were in the room.

Had he really not said Kikyo’s name _at all_? He’d been so fucked up he couldn’t remember with one-hundred percent certainty, but he’d been so sure he had. Illumi wouldn’t hide information, would he? No. If anything, he was too honest.

“Illumi, listen to me. I need you to know that it was a mistake. I was very—” he stopped, nearly choking on his tongue. Illumi had no idea he used a recreational drug. No one knew except for his wife, and he needed it to stay that way. He could swear Illumi to secrecy, but the boy’s filter had been broken since he was born. He’d spoiled Christmas gifts, surprise parties, and white lies until everyone had realized it was better to keep him in the dark.

If he was honest here and now, every single one of his children would hear about it. Zeno would hear about it—he couldn’t bear to deal with the inevitable expression of disappointment slowly turning into smugness. He wouldn’t live it down until they laid him in the mausoleum.

Even worse, Killua would hear about it. He’d think his father was a huge hypocrite to put them through so many torturous immunity sessions while he himself skipped out. All so he could have a fun time, lose himself for a little while amidst all of the stress and responsibilities—there was no way a boy his age could understand. The throne Silva inhabited didn’t need tarnished any further in the eyes of his heir. That was the most vital part of all this.

“I was very tired,” he finished weakly. “The assignment took a bad turn and I was bleeding heavily. I was exhausted. Absolutely _delirious_. Do you understand?”

“Mm.” He nodded, and Silva felt his shoulders relax. “If you would have told me you were tired and hurt, I would have climbed on top. You didn’t have to do all of the work.”

The egg on the end of Silva’s fork dropped between his legs, the humiliation rising up in him again like a pot boiling over. Trying not to imagine it. “Don’t—don’t _say that_. Don’t say shit like that, Illumi,” he said stupidly, trying to pick the egg off the bed with shaky fingers and failing. He was panicking, which was making everything worse.

 _He shouldn’t even be in his son’s bed eating breakfast on a tray._ His wife was probably looking for him—worried if he’d made it home already. The butlers may have already told her they saw him come home. He hoped they had enough discretion not to tell her about him indulging in Keffeld and refusing to have his leg fixed up. She’d be furious and suspicious.

A slender hand on his shoulder, soft except for light callouses on the fingertips; Illumi leaned in, picking the piece of egg from between his legs. His motions steady, secure in what had happened. Not at all shaken. Placing it on a napkin, a small smile on his lips as he looked at his father and straightened his body back up. “Are you finished? Should I take the tray?”

Silva nodded, his head both too heavy and too light. As the tray moved, he realized he was completely naked, flaccid and exposed. This accursed thing that couldn’t tell the difference between his wife and his son. Damn it all.

“Would you like more? I could ask for another tray.”

“No. I need to go.” Illumi asking for greasy foods would already set off a red flag, telling the butlers where he’d ended up. That was assuming they didn’t already know, which was fairly unlikely. All he could hope now was that his wife didn’t find out. His leg was still sore and stiff. He hadn’t fully recovered all of the blood he’d lost. Illumi had wrapped it tightly, and he couldn’t tell if the Nen ability had worn off yet.

Standing at the side of the bed, Illumi brushed a strand of matted, dirty hair from Silva’s forehead. “I cleaned my tub and shower. I can redo your bandage after.” From here Silva could smell his own sweat clinging to Illumi’s body. He hadn’t even used his own shower, but he’d cleaned it. The bruises looked even bigger and accusatory up-close; he could see bitemarks rippling the skin on his neck. His eyes were intense and dark, eyelashes as long as his mother’s used to be.

He pushed Illumi out of the way, rejecting the offer to help him to his feet as he stood. Illumi knew he didn’t need assistance for a wound like this. He was clinging. “You need to shower and cover your neck.”

“You can go first—”

“No. Illumi, I’m going back to my own shower.” He still towered over Illumi when he was standing. Their height difference had always made him feel like Illumi was still a boy, like he’d never overtake his father no matter how old he got. Illumi would always have to look up at him: it made him feel like a father. Now it filled his stomach with rocks. He’d used his size to manhandle his son. “It shouldn’t need said, but we are keeping this between us. I mean it. Not a single word of this to anyone. You’re terrible at keeping secrets. Keep your mouth shut.”

Illumi’s eyes fell down to the floor, or maybe down below Silva’s waist, he couldn’t tell which. Crossing the room to escape that gaze, he grabbed Illumi’s robe. The sleeves came up above his wrists, the shoulders straining, the hem hitting above his knees. If he ripped it, he’d just buy Illumi a new one.

Finally, Illumi said in a small voice that didn’t know how to question authority: “Why?”

“It doesn’t matter why. I need to hear that you understand.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Yes _what_?”

“I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

“I will see you at the breakfast table, I imagine. Until then, clean up. Discreetly.”

“Yes, sir.”

The guilt swarmed his skin like a cold storm. Illumi itched one of his bruises, eyes watching Silva’s retreating back and then darting over to the bloody bed. Those damn eyelashes.

First, he’d done _that_ to his son and now he was forcing Illumi to clean it up, as if it were a punishment. But there was nothing else he could do. He had to carry on being the father and the head of the household or things would only get worse. He knew his son. Illumi would sink his teeth in if he saw any weakness.

Even still, he hovered by the door, hand tight on the handle. “Illumi.” _What are you saying? No, stop. You’ve absolutely done enough._ “I’m sorry.”

Illumi opened his mouth to protest the apology, but Silva slammed the door behind him.

 

Kikyo wasn’t in their bedroom when he got back, so he unwrapped his leg and showered. Either she was at breakfast already, eating and leaning over a book, or she was running frantically around the manor, panicking about his absence.

He tried not to think about what had happened last night, even though there was the temptation to attempt to recall all of the missing details that were eluding his brain. Long black hair, pale shoulders, and sweet, submissive body language that wanted him—no, no, that was _his son_. Not his wife. He’d even lingered on it as he’d fallen asleep, like candy he wanted to savor. Now it was wrapped in barbed wire.

He shut off the water, trying to crush the intrusive thoughts of Illumi’s ass in the air, waiting at the perfect height for Silva to enter him.

 _Ah, shit._ His leg was still bleeding. The Nen-enforced hair was barely holding. Just how long would this asshole’s ability stick around, anyway?

When he emerged, Kikyo was sitting on his side of the bed. She sprang to her feet when she saw him, dropping the nail file she’d been fiddling with; he didn’t know if she was going to hit him or kiss him as she ran at him. Instead, her arms found their way around his neck, his arms coming out instinctively to catch her. “I’m going to kill you,” she said coolly, arms wrapping tighter like a snake with prey. “You worried me. _You worried me._ How dare you do this to me.”

“I know, I just—” He hadn’t thought this through. Lying to Kikyo was a bitch. She was sharp and would poke and prod until she got what she believed to be the truth, no matter how long it took her to get it. He didn’t know how much she’d heard from the butlers. He’d been stupid enough to lay Illumi’s robe on the floor outside the bathroom door. “I was in Illumi’s room. I had a bit of Keffeld, got lost, and ended up there. Thankfully, he let me stay there for the night, bandaged my leg, and even brought me a bit of breakfast.”

The best way to lie was to get as close to the truth as possible.

“Illu’s such a good boy,” she sighed happily, putting her head under his chin. “But _you_ are a bad boy.” She put her nails against his neck, dragging until blood rose to the surface. “You don’t want our precious children finding out you do drugs, Silva.” She only called him ‘Silva’ when he was in trouble. “It would be horrendous if Killu found out— _oh!_ So much blood!”

The blood from her freshly-made wound had gotten the signal from his leg not to coagulate and now freely dripped in itchy drops down his neck. She went to scratch him again, but he caught her hand. “I know. But it’s alright. He didn’t even consider something was amiss, I told him I was exhausted and had lost a lot of blood.”

“How is your leg?”

“It hasn’t stopped bleeding still. Damn bastards.”

“I’ll be on top then.” She giggled, kissing his jawline and scratching the top of his hand with her nails, barely resisting the urge to pierce his skin again. One of the only forces in the world that could make Kikyo forget her ire was her own desire for sex. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful not to break your skin.”

Of all times, _now_? It was the start of the morning, he was already feeling immensely betrayed by his own body, and he’d just showered. “Dear, can’t this wait until tonight? I’m still exhausted.”

“No!” Her voice was sharp, offended. Childish. “You won’t be home until late tonight, remember? You have that assignment—”

“—With Illumi. Oh, _fuck_.”

“You forgot? Silly man, you really _are_ tired.” She tapped his collarbones where the blood from his neck had pooled, guiding it down his chest with her fingertip, and flicked his nipple. “Why don’t you lay back and let Mama do all of the work? Then my big dragon can sleep it off.”

“I don’t think—”

She pulled his wet hair, leveraging herself up higher, tilting her mouth to the side so her visor didn’t bump his nose, and kissed him deeply. He could taste her lipstick and felt it smear on the corners of his mouth. Biting his lips in small bursts, moaning into his mouth even though he wasn’t touching her back.

He had to figure out a way to get out of the assignment with Illumi. But when she was like this, there was no way he was getting free until he’d given something to her.

He kissed back out of obligation to her, but once a warmth settled in his stomach it felt good to have things back to normal. This is the woman he’d wanted to be with last night, not the submissive curve of Illumi’s back in the dark, unfamiliar bedroom.

Laying back on the bed, he watched her remove her dress, an impressive feat he couldn’t believe was possible for one person until he saw her do it each time. She took his hands and placed them on her breasts, nipples hard and smooth. He could feel how wet she was on his stomach. Just like everything else, she was intense when she was ready for sex. It took her no time at all—she rarely wanted foreplay.

She bounced on his stomach, nothing beneath her to even bounce on yet. “Could you reach the lube for me?”

Flashes of his fingers spearing roughly into Illumi’s body, hands gripping the pillow as Silva angled and curved his finger. “No,” he breathed, grabbing her waist and pushing her back, guiding her down onto his dick, a small moan escaping his own mouth as the warmth enveloped him.

“Oh! Naughty man. Someone’s over his fear of pregnancy.” She steadied herself, smiling and leaning back to let him watch her ride. Her hips were a well-timed pendulum with perfect control, her legs and arms powerful from assassinations—snapping necks with her bare hands, breaking legs with a single kick, and even skewering a man’s heart with her heel. She could lift him if she wanted to, but she was too dedicated to her dainty lady image.

Back when she was doing assassinations full time, she took careful consideration of her figure and didn’t allow herself to develop significantly visible abs. But now, after five children and only selectively working, she’d developed a bit of fat on her stomach, which bounced with her breasts as he rode him with shameless abandon. Her lipstick still smeared. They’d been together over twenty-five years and she was still mesmerizing.

He sat up, feeling the sudden urge to take hold of her and kiss her deeply. Undoing her visor, he took her bandaged head into his hands and kissed her hard—harder than he had Illumi—cupping her ass and moving her body faster. Her breasts were flush against his chest, she smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. She rarely smiled so genuinely.

“ _Come inside me_ , oh I’ve waited so long for you to come home to me.”

And Silva did, pulling her into a hug as he came inside her. Trying not to think about where else he’d sewn his seed in the past twenty-four hours. She smelled so sweetly, wearing the same perfume she had on their wedding night. “ _Kikyo—_ ”

She twisted her arms even tighter, tight enough to strangle a normal man, and cried out into his neck as she shuddered through her orgasm. Staying in his neck, she muttered happy nothings about how she felt warm and filled full. She was always mentioning how she’d get pregnant again if he’d allow it—she loved every step of conceiving, feeling full and carrying a powerful, intelligent life only she and her husband could create together. He’d asked her what age she would finally stop wanting children, but she never responded. Sometimes she acted like an addict, but there was barely any fight left in him when the thought of impregnating her again always lit his belly on fire.

They fell back onto the bed together, Kikyo giggling low and happily like a young girl. It panged in his stomach; he missed hearing that laugh. When she got dressed, she would go back to scheming, insecurity, and fits of mania. When she talked of nothing but her children and their coldness and her hopes for them, it felt different than the woman who wanted to carry his children.

But for now, he held her, feeling properly spent and relaxed. The world wasn’t ending anymore, he hadn’t just made a mistake so massive their entire family could come apart. All that existed was warm wife, his soft bed, and the post-orgasm waves making him sigh.

“I’ll send someone in to dress your wounds. You’re still bleeding.” One last kiss and she got up. “Be good on your assignment tonight. Be sure to think of me.”

He wanted to say he loved her but felt like a school boy. That kind of thing didn’t come from his mouth often unless he wasn’t sober. It rarely came from hers either. It didn’t mean they didn’t understand each other.

She closed the bathroom door and the water came on. He wondered if she would fully bathe or just clean up, keeping his sperm inside her just in case she could conceive. He was too tired to stop her.

_Why did she have to mention the assignment?_

As he lay there, half-asleep and fluttering deeper into his nap, he found himself comparing the encounters. The figure he’d thought was Kikyo and the real Kikyo. His son and his son’s mother. The kiss he gave each of them, holding their faces and thinking about how much he loved them.

 

He awoke to a tickle on his leg and a dry mouth that tasted the way sweat smells. When he opened his eyes, a familiar curtain of hair was bent over his naked thigh, examining his wound.

“Illumi,” he said, much more harshly than intended, sleepy voice like sandpaper as he felt panic rise up again. In his hazy brain, it was as though Illumi had followed him here to corner him, force him to confront what he had done. To make them have sex again in his marital bed. “This is my bedroom. What are you doing in here?”

His eyes were wide, as if he’d gotten caught in the headlights of a car, confusion causing creases on his forehead. When he tilted his head, his neck was back to its normal, unblemished state. He’d stuck a needle in his body somewhere. “Mother asked me to stitch your wound properly.”

“Why did she send _you_?”

Hurt spread over his eyes for a single moment before his impassive face ironed it out. “She said you didn’t like butlers seeing you nude. She also said I was just as skilled, if not moreso, at suturing.” He was wearing black latex gloves and had a cart of supplies with him, his words exactly as Kikyo had said them. “Since it’s a Nen ability, our doctor could do little more than stitch it anyway.”

“Of course, you’re right. Carry on.”

As he came to full lucidity he realized he would have to get a grip on himself quickly. At this rate, he would be the one to accidentally reveal what had happened between them—no, not _between them_. What _he_ had done. What he alone had done to Illumi.

Illumi worked silently, his breath hot on Silva’s thigh. He wasted not a single motion, piercing deeply and precisely with no hesitation, pulling tight and dabbing the blood that came gushing out. Applying pressure. “If this doesn’t work, we could cauterize it. Though, Mother said it would leave a massive scar on your,” he sucked in a breath, “ _handsome thigh_.”

Suddenly, he began feeling more self-conscious about smelling of sex. No doubt Illumi could tell—if Kikyo hadn’t already playfully bragged about it to him—that they’d just had sex. Not even an hour after he’d left Illumi’s bedroom. It made him look like a sex maniac instead of a man who’d made a one-time mistake.

No. That was backwards. What did it matter what is son thought about his sex life?

 _Great._ Now he was feeling guilty about feeling guilty for having sex with his wife.

“Illumi,” he breathed, not knowing what he was saying, but feeling like he needed to justify the entire situation without talking about the act itself. “Your mother and I love each other.”

_Why was it easier to say to his son than to his own wife?_

It made him smile, which Silva hadn’t expected. “I know. It’s wonderful.”

After he set down the needle and pulled off his gloves with a slapping sound that jolted the air, he put his hand on Silva’s thigh, not near the wound. His hand moved up and down, as if admiring the muscle beneath, thinking about his mother’s words. Hand looking so small against the expanse of skin, his nails were rounded, even, and clean, stirring Silva’s leg hair.

His spit went down his throat like a rock. “What happened between—what happened _last night_ doesn’t change anything. I’m happily married to your mother. Do you understand?”

“Of course. Why would it change anything?” Even as he said that, he didn’t remove his hand.

The room was dim, but there was a spark of something that reflected in his dark eyes. His hand moved up, and Silva suppressed a shudder, scooting further up towards his headboard. Illumi pursued until his hand rested in the crevice of his leg, right next to his testicles.

 _What could he say to get it through Illumi’s thick skull?_ He’d already been as blunt as possible. It was exhausting to think of new ways to make this all go away. Tying up loose ends was irritating when you couldn’t snuff out the life attached to it.

He’d been trying to be kind since this had been his fault to begin with. But if this were any other situation, Illumi would have already been punished for toeing the line and pushing his patience. He was all but telling Illumi ‘no’ while Illumi’s fingers and eyes were directly defying him.

Maybe that was the problem. Punishment was the only thing Illumi understood when he violated orders—not these soft lectures and scoldings.

When he was a boy, he’d been clingy—he’d climbed on Silva’s lap, clung to his mother’s dress, and was always trying to fill his hand with another, even if it was one of the butlers. He’d been scolded over and over, lectured that he was too old for this behavior and it ruined his image as a Zoldyck assassin. But he didn’t seem to care for his image or his age, only his parents and, eventually, his brothers, with such intensity his touches could spark wildfires on their skin.

They’d stayed up late at night, in bed, talking about what to do with their Illumi dilemma—not the first or last time they would have that conversation. It was easier to deal with a bad son than one who was otherwise very obedient, not to mention an excellent assassin who didn’t flinch at the sight of viscera. A single command was all it took for him to obey anything—he was so eager to please—except when it came to the clinging: sneaking into their bed, the constant calls of ‘Papa’ and ‘Mama’ as he searched for them up and down the empty halls. He was unlucky enough to be the first-born of young parents, and their hesitation to overcorrect a good child or under-correct a rotten one let him get away with it for too long.

A good beating, intense enough to make him think he may die, had finally made him stop. He’d even stopped referring to them as ‘Mama’ and ‘Papa,’ which hadn’t been their intention, but they wouldn’t risk undoing their progress by reextending that permission.

Since then, they’d lost their young parent hesitation and gotten better at gauging the appropriate level at which to correct. Rarely had they needed to resort to that level of punishment since, at least not on Illumi.

“Come here.” It was a command like he’d give to any of his children during an assignment.

Illumi’s hand left his skin, his feet taking him over quickly to the head of the bed with a militant, even stride.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I—” His eyes darted back at Silva’s naked body. “Nothing.”

“Touch your nose to mine.”

His face lit up in excitement, lips pursing unconsciously before he straightened his face again. He bent over, carefully following the instructions, hair surrounding Silva’s peripheral vision like a black curtain. Two big, black voids consumed him. Kikyo’s eyes had been similar, but not nearly so endless and hollow, as if they absorbed every inch of you they traced over. When excited, there was something that moved in the center of them, a quaking like excited bugs on the surface of his psyche. Even for the purposes of torture, Silva had struggled to understand and mentally profile his oldest son.

But he knew punishment worked.

The feeling of déjà vu licked at this brain when his hand closed around a big handful of hair on the base of Illumi’s skull, close to his scalp, and yanked it taught. Dark eyes widened in surprise, searching for the reason why the fist was tightening, tugging hard enough to intentionally cause pain. Illumi had a high tolerance for pain but he rarely let people close to his hair or scalp, preferring to fight long distance.

Wrenching his head, forcefully removing Illumi’s nose from his, he sat up and let his hands fall to his sides, keeping hold of the hair as if it were the strings to an incredibly complex marionette. Illumi dropped to his knees next to the bed, heavy head bent, hair veiling his expression.

“I thought you learned this lesson already, but it seems you’re unlearning it.”

The only sounds in the room were Silva’s enraged heartbeat and Illumi’s feint, assassin’s breathing. Lifeless doll when accepting discipline, nothing like the fight his brothers had in their eyes when they felt a punishment was unjust. The hair lifted from his bare neck revealed the hidden needle in his skin, high up near his hairline, the only thing keeping his bite marks hidden.

Silva plucked it out, watching the detransformation ripple across his skin, some of the ripples remain as a permanent fixture, and the bruises bloom violently—black into purple into red like those paintings he loved so much.

Swinging his legs off the bed, his knees right next to Illumi’s head, he heard the pulse beneath his hand quicken with hunger. He couldn’t see where Illumi’s eyes were looking, but he had a feeling he already knew. Silva had sparked this animalistic sickness in his son, he realized. By isolating him and taking him roughly—he was confused, his body dealing with the shock of sexuality it usually never received. This reaction had nothing to do with Silva himself. Illumi was just a sexually-frustrated young adult with a virile body and nothing to direct pent-up energies to.

But behaving like this was no way to deal with it. He would be grateful once Silva brought him back to reality. Zoldycks had more self-control than this. This was what a father was for.

He plucked Kikyo’s nail file from where she’d discarded it on the floor, reinforcing it with Nen and driving the point of it into Illumi’s neck, in the center of the bitemarks, until blood erupted among the bruising. Usually, this was the moment he would repeat the lesson he meant to impart or the reason his child was being punished, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Illumi knew his behavior was improper. Silva didn’t need to say it.

Another few millimeters in, a whimper reached his ears. It didn’t sound like hurting. He tried to swallow the redness in his own cheeks. This was the price of a son who could handle an immense amount of pain. Actually, considering how Silva had shoved into him last night, a nail file was probably insignificant to the son who put needles in his own skin for a living.

It had been a long time since he’d attempted to punish Illumi with force. It would take a significant amount of time and torture to do the proper amount of damage—which he couldn’t afford with this assignment tonight.

A knock came at the door, giving him an excuse to drop the useless attempt and let the file clatter to the floor, releasing Illumi’s hair and watching it stay bunched, tangled from the sweat of his palm.

“Yes?”

“Master Silva,” a masculine voice came from behind the door, making no move to open it. “Your presence has been requested at lunch. Mistress Kikyo has asked for you, since you skipped breakfast.”

 _A great opportunity to escape the situation_ , he thought bitterly. _Silva, you’re pathetic. Running away from punishment now?_

“Tell her I will be down in a moment.”

“Yes, sir.”

When he looked back down, Illumi had the bloody nail file clasped to the top of his leg, as if returning it to Silva’s possession; his hair clung to his face, shrouding his expression, cheek pressed hotly to Silva’s inner thigh. Closer than he was a moment ago. Legs breaking out in goosebumps, he could feel Illumi’s tongue dart out and touch his bare skin; warm saliva perched on his lips, just waiting for Silva to drop his guard enough long enough to dive deeper into the valley of his thighs.

Standing quickly, the file clattered to the floor. He gave a hard shove to Illumi’s dense skull, knocking him backwards against the stone floor.

Illumi’s form slouched as he picked himself up. Dark eyes peeking out from dark hair plastered against pale cheeks, the nail file had created a kind of crater in his neck as if from a massive stinger, blood running down bruised flesh, staining his collar. He’d have to clean himself up again and change his clothes before the assignment.

Unless Silva could find a way to do it without him, which seemed to be his only option at this point.

This time when he left the room, he didn’t apologize.


	2. Chapter 2

At first, he considered summoning Zeno to one of the meeting rooms in order to lay open the assignment and make his case, but that seemed too dire. Casual was a much better strategy. Much less suspicious. Instead, he had the butlers find and summon him to the lounge bar at lunchtime, sans casefile and stern expression. Just open hands and hopefully enough backbone to deal with his father.

It was too soon to be sitting in at his regular barstool after the mistakes of last night; he was sitting on one of the low couches when Zeno showed up and sat across from him, ordering a coffee and tobacco for his pipe. The music changed on his arrival. He preferred heavy bass with soft female vocals; he was wordlessly catered to despite Silva having arrived first.

“So?” He settled back in the papasan chair, crossing his ankle over his knee. “What was so vital you had me hunted down by seven butlers?”

_Ah, shit. So much for casual._

“Hunted. Very funny.” He sipped his bitter green tea, bringing his fingers up to smooth the deep wrinkles on his forehead. He couldn’t look desperate—if his expression looked anything like Illumi’s, he didn’t wear desperation well. “I was thinking that I’d take this assignment on alone tonight. Just wanted to run it by you.”

It wasn’t as though he needed his father’s permission to make this decision. He was the head of this family and, if he wanted to send his _youngest_ on the mission instead, he would do it. But Zeno was still very much involved in helping to delegate who took what assignments. If Silva did all of the assigning, delegating, finances, and communications on his own, he’d have no time to ever get out and actually work the field. He’d be bored to death, being locked in his office twenty-four hours a day, so Zeno frequently helped with reviewing the assignments, assessing the difficulty, and assigning the family member(s) who would handle it.

Even if this was typically his jurisdiction, he didn’t need his father’s permission to change arrangements at a last minute’s notice. But Zeno made good judgment calls. They rarely butted heads over the delegation. It would look incredibly suspicious if Silva switched it without running it by him first.

His pipe was handed to him already lit; smoke rose out of his nose as he sneered. “You’re serious? Silva, you’re injured. If I’d have thought your _uninjured_ self would be enough to complete this alone, I wouldn’t have wasted our resources and sent Illumi along to sit around with his thumb up his ass.”

Silva winced at the phrasing. “He’s not feeling well. I don’t think he’ll be any use. If we call Kalluto home, we can have him sub in for Illumi.”

Zeno sat up, looking hard at his son’s face. “He looked just fine to me this morning. I don’t think I’ve seen him ill since he was seven. What’s really going on?” Silva made the mistake of looking away, and Zeno pursued harder. “Are you fighting with him? You’re always telling your children to put aside their petty squabbles for the sake of work and yet here you are, setting a terrible example.”

While raising Silva, Zeno had rarely expressly forbidden anything. He’d never needed to.

Silva had been fifteen when he brought home a new pair of boots with a Cuban heel and Zeno had smiled a thin smile of pity. ‘ _Are you not tall enough already? Are your bare feet suddenly too weak to break bone? Otherwise, those are going to be a mess in a fight. But hey, at least you’ll look flashy._ ’

After that smile, the pair he’d admired in a shop window for weeks slept in the bottom of his closet until he grew out of them, and he became determined not to make any more stupid decisions that could patronized. But his father always found a way.

“I don’t have to run this by you. Instead of questioning me, why don’t you offer a solution? Offer to take his place instead of bucking me on this.”

“Because I have an assignment tonight as well. Here’s my suggestion: get over your beef with Illumi or get yourself torn apart again. If this ability doesn’t wear off soon, you could die from just one more minor wound. Your son happens to be a quick hand at stitching and is skilled at creating diversions, should the need arise. I don’t have to explain to you how his abilities are a vital in this particular assignment, Silva. You know better.”

The lights in the lounge suddenly felt too bright, too judgmental. They remembered last night. He brought the palm of his hands up to his eyes, letting the bit of tea left in his cup get cold on the table between them. Zeno sipped his coffee as though it meant nothing to him, just a friendly debate between friends. But the scales were always tipped in Zeno’s favor before Silva ever opened his mouth.

He clasped his hands between his knees, head bowed. “You’re right, of course. I’m stressed. It’s best we do the assignment as planned.”

Coffee cup clinked down empty, another cloud of smoke curling into the air. “And just how exactly are you clashing with the one son who would lay under the wheels of a bus if you even suggested it?”

_Shit._

Pushing his cuticles back with his short thumb nail, he sighed. “I just thought he could use a vacation.”

“Bullshit. So he can do what, follow Killua around? Hang out with that clown? You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but don’t lie to me.”

“You know how kids are. He’s going through some foolish rebellion.”

“Christ, this _is_ serious. You don’t make this many excuses unless you’ve really fucked up.”

Silva stood, feeling cornered and vulnerable. Needing to puff himself back up like colorful prey in front of a predator.

If Kikyo were here, she would have already lunged at Zeno’s throat for being so disrespectful to the head of the family. When she was around, his father stuffed all of his snide remarks in his back pocket, sulking and being less-than-helpful in retaliation for being silenced by her volatile intolerance for insubordination.

It wasn’t that he respected or feared her more than he did his son, but Kikyo would strike without fear of future consequences, even if it caused everyone more problems in the long run. Keeping the peace was a long-standing tradition between powerful Zoldyck members that Kikyo didn’t see the need for. If someone deserved punishment, she would deal it even if the house collapsed above her head. She had very little sense that way; but he could learn from her when it came to his father. Someday he would follow her lead when he wasn’t exhausted and injured and backed against a wall.

For now, it was a no-go with Zeno. His only hope now was to get Illumi to back out of it willingly.

As if reading his mind, Zeno added: “Besides, it’s a baby shower, isn’t it? You’ll drag him kicking and screaming off this assignment.”

_He’d forgotten._

There went his last hope of getting out of this assignment with Illumi.

Illumi had loved baby showers ever since he’d attended Milluki’s. On the surface, he loved the celebratory aspect of bringing a new little sibling into the world, which was entirely expected of him. But there was something darker beneath it: Illumi’s fixation had become unsettling ever since he’d asked to see photos from his own shower, causing him to discover he’d never had one. Even as a five-year-old, his expression had been enough to make Silva shudder. No explanation was good enough for those eyes, but the truth was even worse.

After Kikyo and Silva had found out about their little surprise, they’d moved her in and gotten their affairs in order to live as husband and wife, foregoing any fanfare in order to properly prepare for a baby they hadn’t been expecting.

They couldn’t tell Illumi he was out-of-wedlock, a _surprise_.

Since then, an intense weight of envy condensed in his eyes at every shower, fiddling with decorations of baby bottles and pacifiers and cribs. It would have been comical if not for the terrifying aura around him, a complex that weighed more than all of Kukuroo Mountain. When they’d considered skipping Kalluto’s in order to save the time and energy they had to spend on Killua’s upbringing, Illumi had nearly had a fit. He’d threatened to do the entire thing himself and force everyone to attend, ultimately leading them to relent and throw it. He was more intent on baby showers than birthday parties.

Silva hadn’t expected he’d list ‘not throwing a baby shower’ as one of his biggest regrets, but he’d also never anticipated a son like Illumi.

 

The baby shower was strictly invite-only and ruthlessly monitored due to the high-profile names in attendance. Silva and Illumi had successfully infiltrated one of the twenty-three spare bedrooms in the summer home, making it inside undetected and securing the doorway, ensuring they were properly isolated. If anyone blew the whistle on two unfamiliar faces, it would only take a few seconds for them to be surrounded by Hunters serving as event security, private security, and bodyguards of individual attendees—what a nightmare.

It was much less a baby shower than an excuse for a display of vanity: an opportunity to schmooze and drink without any undesirables. Events this big were typically easy to crash, blending in with plus-ones, bodyguards, and waitstaff, but this crowd took inventory—face and names—of all guests, even the lowest bodyguard and dish washer, and forced them through a check-in and nametag process before allowing anyone on the premises. Even while walking around the guests were subject to random identification checks.

This was why Illumi was vital for this assignment—there were few other ways to get close to the targets under such horrendously rigid circumstances. Silva had to remain fairly close to this route of escape, either stationary in this room or moving to areas confirmed to be deserted, if necessary. Especially with the ability still kicking around in his body, affecting his blood.

Illumi doublechecked that their emergency communication devices were synched, straightened his tie, and glanced over his shoulder at Silva over and over.

In the car on the way over, Illumi had looked over the file again, whispering, “Infidelity. Disgusting.” And Silva had screwed his eyes shut against the horrendous irony of it.

After that comment, he’d been quiet, trying not to upset his father further. Trees passed by quickly behind his head as the sunset lit his hair with an orange nova. It had been at least two years since they’d ridden in the back of the same vehicle together, sitting less than two feet apart. His palms sat neatly on his black dress pants. It was painfully obvious that he’d still not given up, the center of his eyes still squirming, looking like a kicked puppy instead of an adult who had learned his lesson.

Now that they were here, Silva couldn’t even remember what flaky justification he’d had for how he could have done this alone. Sure, it was _possible_ —in the days before Illumi’s ability they’d had just as strict circumstances to overcome and they’d done so. But nowadays—ever since Illumi had gained control of his ability—it was unthinkable to risk so much and do things messily. Not using Illumi in situations like these was a massive waste. He was thankful Zeno hadn’t relented, hadn’t let him make such a stupid mistake. That was the job of a father though, wasn’t it?

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“What is the minimum sign of infidelity that I should look for?”

“According to the report, the client wants to be certain. Nothing less than an extended, non-polite kiss on the lips.”

He thought Silva couldn’t see his expression, but he was squinting at the floor, trying to think of the distinction that was being described. Possibly trying to decide if he should admit to being unable to tell the difference. For as straightforward as he usually was, Illumi could sometimes be stubbornly prideful. “Show me the difference?”

_Nice try._

“You have a cell phone with internet capabilities, don’t you? Look it up.”

While Illumi was the best for the stealth this job required, he was the worst at this kind of conditional assignment. Silva never sent him on infidelity assignments alone. Unless the pair was engaged in heavy petting or intercourse, he had difficulty distinguishing between romantic and nonromantic acts, especially in affectionate high society circles and more physically expressive cultures. Detecting subtlety wasn’t his strong suit, but this time they didn’t have a choice.

A headache was knocking at the back of Silva’s eyes already. Conditional assignments were the worst, and they were only getting more frequent. With the price hike, it was hard to turn them down. No one simply wanted their enemies dead anymore. Princes and mob bosses who didn’t want their spouse dead unless they were guilty of cheating were incredibly common, and they were willing to pay the extensive price to avoid hiring a middleman as an investigator. Especially when their lover was high-profile as well.

Milluki, as always, had tried to prevent a physical investigation; but the client’s girlfriend was either entirely innocent or she kept a phone he didn’t know about. A search of alternate emails, social media accounts, and her laptop also yielded no results. It was now up to his older brother to determine what touches and kisses were considered romantic while Silva waited anxiously in this spare bedroom: Illumi would either lure the lovers here to die or watch them most of the night, going home without killing anyone and still getting paid full price.

Silva greatly preferred the option that got this over with quicker and hoped they’d start grinding against each other immediately in some dark hallway right in front of Illumi’s reflective eyes.

“Don’t overthink it. If we err on the side of elimination, it’s doubtful the client will know they weren’t having an affair anyway. When it comes to conditional clients, they’re already convinced enough to hire assassins—they won’t question having their worst suspicions confirmed. People don’t argue when they’re proven right.”

That seemed to relax him. “Understood.”

Silva made himself comfortable on the bed. They had to sweep the place of evidence before they left anyway, might as well make himself comfortable. Nothing left now but to wait for the security guard making his rounds to this remote guest bedroom hall. Silva and Illumi were both in suits expensive enough to fit into this crowd. Silva wasn’t used to wearing something so lavish, but it was vital in case they were spotted, it would buy them a few precious minutes before arousing suspicion.

Illumi perched awkwardly on the edge of the desk, checking his watch.

“You know I don’t ask your business, but don’t you have anyone your own age that you’re interested in?”

Emphasis on _your own age_.

Although they both knew Illumi, as one of the only viable candidates, would likely be offered in an arranged marriage when a prime opportunity made itself known, he was still permitted to date so long as he filled out the proper paperwork and had his choice approved. But other than members who were—or _had been_ —in the Phantom Troupe, he didn’t express any interest in socializing with non-family.

Perhaps they’d done too thorough of a job on him.

The desk was just tall enough to lift his feet from the floor and he swung them, black dress socks peeking out from his dress pants. Legs so long and thin, ankles delicate like a woman’s. Surely he’d had _someone_ proposition him. He was far from unattractive.

But he just blinked, twisting his arm and cupping his chin in his hand. “Should I be?”

“Clearly, it’s serving as a detriment that you haven’t, since you lack judgment in areas like this.” It was also a detriment for having caused what was a misdirected, sexual starvation in his father’s direction. “How do you intend to keep a wife happy if you don’t know the basics?” Technically, the potential spouse needn’t be a wife. Whether or not Illumi procreated was none of his concern. But _wife_ had already tumbled from his mouth, and he wouldn’t bother correcting it.

“Ah. Then I will—”

Footsteps down the hall, halting Illumi’s sentence instantly.

Only a single set: auspicious. The jingling of keys: even moreso.

Illumi sprang to his feet, hovering at the doorknob, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Silva knew he didn’t need to stand or assist him. He was highly capable on his own.

Opening the door, as if about to calmly go down to join the party, Illumi struck a single blow to the security guard’s neck, knocking him unconscious, and then lifted him off the ground by his throat as he carried him into the room and shut the door gently behind.

Silva watched with pride brewing in his chest as Illumi analyzed his features and memorized them quickly, stripping his clothes off carefully and folding each article, setting them on the desk until he was stark naked. Despite his leisurely attitude, he moved quickly. None of his movements wasted, he was used to stripping himself and others in order to assume their outfit when necessary. He left the man in his underwear, sliding on the white uniform donned by the roaming guards.

He pulled the needle he currently had in his neck, the damage Silva had done to him showing itself only for a moment before he replaced it with another that transformed him into the man’s identical. Not even Silva’s sharp eye could spot any differences—but that was to be expected of a professional Zoldyck assassin.

The final piece to his disguise was a nametag shaped like a baby bottle; he straightened another man’s name on his shirt. “I shall lure them here if they display signs of intimacy.” Even as he said that, he looked like a little boy trying to wear an adult’s shoes.

“Do not engage them in combat unless absolutely necessary. We have reason to believe he’s an ex-Triple-Star Hunter and we’re unsure of his ability at this juncture.” There was also a bit of information which suggested the potential lover wasn’t a strong combatant, but it was better to allow Illumi to think he was. Better to be overly-cautious than under.

He smiled, mistaking the command for concern. “Of course.” And exited the room.

Silva couldn’t stop concern from materializing in his stomach. He hoped Illumi’s body was alright—not the nail file wound, but hopefully Silva hadn’t seriously injured his insides or torn anything. Of all things, Illumi wouldn’t have expected to guard his internal organs from an assault by his father in the middle of the night.

They were both quite a pair, attempting an assignment this vital while compromised.

Waiting was the hardest part. It made him admit to himself that he was a workaholic when he couldn’t sit in once place for very long, couldn’t relax without at least a pen in his hand or drugs in his system or his wife beneath him. His thumbs twiddled anxiously; he checked his phone, trying not to think of all of the mistakes his son could be making. He trusted Illumi. He did. But idle hands and an idle brain was a poison that made him irrational. Made him trace the veins in his hands and notice how old they’d gotten. Illumi and Milluki were so immature it made him forget his age. When he was Illumi’s age, he had already been married with a clingy child on his lap.

Illumi’s clothes were folded and stacked on top of the desk, a pair of bright red underwear on top of the black pile, standing out like a beacon in the night. The sensory memory of Illumi’s naked hip was on his fingertips— _Illumi had been sleeping naked last night_.

Not that he didn’t have every right to sleep naked in his own bedroom, but that was something Silva would have never guessed about his oldest son, who usually wore button-down nightshirts and matching sleep pants. Just how many nights a week did he strip off that clean-pressed, straight-laced façade and crawl naked into his bed?

Bitterly, he couldn’t help but blame Illumi for all of it. If he’d had clothing on, Silva would have slowed down, recognized that something was wrong and that he wasn’t Kikyo. Stopped at the feeling of those patterned sleep pants instead of yanking them down.

It was _Illumi’s fault_ for this lingering feeling of skin still on his fingertips.

He stood, needing to stretch his legs and empty his head.

 _Illumi’s fault_ his legs took him over to the stack of clothes, picking up the silken red underwear to replace the phantom feeling of Illumi’s naked hips.

He’d started causing Silva problems in this department ever since he’d decided to grow his hair out as a teenager. By the time he was eighteen, his hair was the same length Kikyo’s had been when he’d first met her, and just as dark, straight, and soft-looking. It had settled like a brick in his stomach then too, watching Illumi’s hair turn corners a beat after his body had.

Humiliatingly, he’d been so distracted that he’d suggested Illumi cut it. But it seemed to be the only bit of individuality that he wanted to hang on to, so Silva didn’t push. As he grew out of his awkward teens he became irritatingly beautiful, eyelashes like his mother’s and a small waist that he chose to accentuate. He was built nothing like his father.

When he thought about how many years it had been since he’d first noticed Illumi in this way, a mistake like this seemed inevitable. He should have nipped this is the bud a long time ago. Whether that meant forcing Illumi to cut his hair or getting _himself_ in check, he wasn’t sure. Fatherhood was complicated. The underwear felt good against his fingers.

Three pairs of footsteps came down the hall and he set the underwear back on top of the pile, walking over to the door and preparing to take out the man as quickly as possible. Illumi knew to grab the woman. He heard Illumi’s transformed voice mention a couple’s suite. Good. It was more than an uncertain whim.

Sometimes things went better than expected with these pain-in-the-ass assignments. The Ex-Triple-Star was taken entirely off guard—he didn’t look as though he’d done much fighting in his life, or at least not since he’d obtained his Ex status—and went down instantly with a snap of his neck. A half-scream rippled from the woman before Illumi slipped a needle into the base of her skull, causing immediate death while her eyes were still wide open in terror.

Silva heaved a sigh of relief, nodding to Illumi as they moved the bodies to the bed and stripped them, as per an additional request for an additional fee. Post-death humiliation for the unfaithful. It was a strange job to spread open the legs of naked bodies, his son posing the woman and him posing the man like they were playing with anatomically-correct dolls. But Silva had long separated himself from the job; it was foolish and hypocritical to get bothered just because their usual job of taking lives had crossed into a pseudo-sexual territory.

When Illumi began folding their clothes out of habit, Silva stopped him.

“It’s supposed to look natural.”

“Ah.” He dropped the woman’s dress onto the end of the bed in a heap, his eyes trailing up her pointed toes all the way to her splayed thighs. A curious boy who didn’t hide his staring, unashamed in all the ways he should have been.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Illumi stripped off the security uniform, redressing the passed-out body so as to not leave evidence of his ability. A knocked-out security guard wasn’t telling—a naked guard was. When he was fully naked, he pulled the needle from his neck, hair falling down in dark waves, the splotches of bruise swirling around his hips, already turning yellow in some places from quick healing. Silva looked away before the small of his back brought back more sensory memories.

From his peripheral vision, he could see Illumi’s form stop suddenly at the pile of clothes, body becoming as still as a mannequin. The tick of the grandfather clock on the opposite side of the room hammered out each second he stood frozen. Silva glanced at the bodies, which were growing colder was Illumi stood there. They could have been in the car by now.

He finally looked directly at Illumi, seeing what he feared he would: Illumi’s eyes were locked on the balled-up pair of red underwear perched on the top of the pile.

His throat tightened. No words would will to leave his mouth as Illumi’s head slowly turned to him, his eyes hard, probing, and alight with something that was going to burst. The lesson learned by his punishment trying and failing to fight against the evidence in front of him. The desire that tore through his body upon seeing that his father had fiddled with his underwear was winning against the wound in his neck. His entire self was short-circuiting.

Defensively, he said, “Illumi, it’s time to leave.”

But the disturbing of his perfectly-folded shrine was unforgivable. He couldn’t stuff down the image of his father’s hands voluntarily on his underwear. Illumi left his clothing at the desk, each step he took toward Silva was one of defiance, bruised hips coming closer until they were pressed against Silva’s body.

A powerful, persistent hand grabbed him through his clothing, a smile tugging Illumi’s lips at what he felt.

Silva shoved his shoulder hard, trying to dislocate him like the jaw of a carnivore—but it was as though Illumi’s skin was stuck to him, groping harder, sliding a hand up into Silva’s shirt. Those slightly-calloused fingertips ghosting over his stomach and up his chest, sliding back down again as if desperately searching for something. There was a tug on the waistband of his pants as Illumi released the knot of the cloth belt holding them.

Silva halted his hand before it made its way down his pants. “Stop. We’re leaving.” _What on this blue planet made Illumi think that this was the proper time or place to behave this way?_ Dead bodies on the bed, an unconscious man on the ground, Hunters and bodyguards swarming a few floors beneath them.

“No.” His small hand wrenched free of Silva’s hold, fingers splaying for a moment in the air before he forced them into the waistband of Silva’s underwear. The thought passed his mind that he should have broken Illumi’s fingers, but Illumi’s voice saying ‘no’ banged around in his brain, leaving him too stupid to drag Illumi back to the car.

“What did you just say to me?” He grabbed Illumi’s chin, forcing him to look up at the man he’d just said ‘no’ to. Illumi didn’t say ‘no’ to his father. No son of Zoldyck should ever have the word ‘no’ pass their lips when speaking to their father. It was an issue more pressing than the hand pumping his half-hard penis.

Not breaking eye contact, he rubbed his exposed erection against Silva’s leg. He couldn’t believe the words coming out of Illumi’s mouth when he said, “You owe me one.”

It came back to him. He’d muttered—to who he’d _thought_ was his wife—that he owed her for the rough, unreciprocated sex.

He remembered.

_Son of a bitch._

Illumi had told him he couldn’t understand anything he said. _But he’d understood it all, hadn’t he? Silva_ had _said his wife’s name._

“You lied.” His grip on Illumi’s chin broke, mouth agape at the son who never lied or disobeyed him. From this angle, he didn’t look like his mother. His expressions were too soft, lips not as full, his brow larger, his ears stuck out a bit too far off his head the same way they had as a boy. Broad chest, muscular thighs, not an ounce of fat anywhere on him. His hair smelled like charcoal and lavender instead of a spiced perfume—even with his eyes closed, Silva could no longer mistake him for Kikyo.

Illumi’s breath hitched as he rutted harder, his other arm wrapping around Silva’s waist and pressing his naked body as close as he possibly could, trying to find a way to sink into Silva’s skin. “ _Papa,_ ” he breathed into Silva’s chest, a small moan burying itself into Silva’s groin.

It was hopeless.

It was all hopeless and stupid.

Even with his injured leg, it took no effort to lift his son like he used to when he was a boy—but this time he walked only a few steps before letting him fall onto the sturdy, wooden desk, Illumi’s folded clothes falling to the floor and going to wrinkles, destroying any evidence that Silva had tampered with just his underwear. Papers and a reading lamp clattered to the floor after them.

On his back, Illumi lifted his chin, exposing his neck openly—just as submissive now as he had been on his stomach. Legs open, erection laying on his muscular stomach, eyes lidded, masculine jaw ticking in excitement with the clench of his teeth. Laying in dark waves behind him, his hair had fallen back from his face, fully showing his boyish ears and strong forehead. The bruises on his hips glowed accusatory and alluring on his skin, inviting further abuse.

Silva touched them, tracing heavy callouses over soft skin until he had hold of Illumi’s open thighs on each side, wanting to scold him and tell him to cover himself up just as much as he wanted to shove himself in again, make him regret disobeying, see him standing uncomfortably in his bedroom again or kneeling with a fresh, deserved wound in his neck.

All of it would take too much time. There was a middle ground to end this.

It felt somewhat like Silva’s first time again, looking down at a set of genitals he didn’t know the first thing about how to pleasure. Back in Meteor City, an eighteen-year-old Kikyo had wrapped her legs around his head, yanking his hair and guiding him to what she wanted as she wanted it—but Illumi was waiting, his chest heaving and heart pounding into the desk as he anticipated what his father was going to do. Trusting that he would be skilled at it, no matter what, the way he perceived him to be skilled at everything else. Allowing his son to idolize him was an openmouthed beartrap waiting for Silva to prove himself imperfect with one foul step. _It shouldn’t bother him, but it did._

He sighed, tucking his hair behind his ear absentmindedly as he let his eyes roam over the eager body beneath him. At the wound in his neck, made by a fallible father with no idea how to handle an otherwise obedient son.

_The only way to do something you were unsure of was to begin doing it._

When he lowered his head, his wavy, unruly hair dislodged from his ear and fell forward anyway, tickling Illumi’s stomach. He took hold of the erection only inches from his face, trying to suppress thoughts of how the shape of the head looked like his own, and wrapped his mouth around it.

Illumi moaned— _much too loudly_ considering where they were—and touched the crown of Silva’s head without gripping his hair. It was more of a desperate pawing than guidance.

Silva had barely done anything yet. _Just how inexperienced was he?_

At least this would end quickly.

He tried to tighten the seal of his mouth, the foreign taste filling his mouth, the back of his mind nagging, _this is what Kikyo always does for you_. And she was damn good at, had been damn good at it even since the first time. His own drool dripped onto his fingers as he tried to think what else she did that he could replicate.

But just when he was starting to get bold, taking in more and trying to quicken the pace of his bobbing, Illumi’s abs clenched as teeth accidentally snagged the head of his cock. Feeling like a clumsy beast, Silva felt his face heat up. This was harder than she made it seem; he wasn’t equipped for it. Wasn’t graceful enough. This was a much more delicate process than eating a woman out.

He retreated, a small noise in the back of Illumi’s throat protesting. Removing his mouth, saliva cascaded down his lips and pooled on Illumi’s manicured pubic hair. Thank god for that blessing at least: he didn’t have to bury his nose in a mass of hair like he himself sported. If that were the case, he may have already given up. The thought of Illumi spending time in his shower, meticulously grooming himself despite not having a significant other, made Silva strain against his own underwear.

Catching his breath, or rather trying to think of a better strategy, he stroked him, hand covered in his own spit as he tried to figure out if he was squeezing too hard. He’d never had to pay attention to his grip when it was his own body. Illumi’s slight squirming beneath him wasn’t indicative of much—he was just as difficult to read as usual. Silva greatly preferred outspoken women who would bark at him if he wasn’t doing it right.

When he dipped his head again, he continued to stroke, which seemed much easier than using his mouth, and licked Illumi’s balls. He could at least do this much without getting too rough or miscalculating his own strength. Illumi’s breathing shifted, ramped higher into pleasure, and probably a bit relieved that Silva wouldn’t be dragging teeth across his dick again.

Realizing that his sexual skillset, which was limited to women, could only be replicated in one place with Illumi, he went lower.

“Ah— _Papa—_ ” Pens clattered to the floor as Illumi clutched for nonexistent sheets, his fingernails only meeting the wood surface.

Pushing his legs forward, Silva held up his lower back and increased the intensity of his mouth. Stroking Illumi simultaneously with his right hand was a pain, but it was much easier than minding his teeth and trying to create a suction while continuously moving his head.

Illumi reached down and helped part his cheeks, quietly gasping and breathing shallowly as saliva dripped down onto the desk. Silva pressed his tongue harder— _an apology for last night_ —and he could feel Illumi’s back tensing. He was close.

Of course he was. He’d never been treated like this before, which was an injustice. If for that reason alone, Silva was fine with this. Imparting some experience to his backwards, repressed son was a mercy. Maybe this encounter would lead him to seek other, more appropriate partners. If he sought it out, he would find it: he was young, beautiful, and had a shapely body. Obedient, submissive, considerate to his family—

Deciding he owed it to Illumi—or rather, that Illumi deserved it—he raised his head back up, slipping Illumi’s dick back into his mouth, rubbing his wet hole with a large thumb as he bobbed his head up and down.

Illumi’s hips bucked up into his mouth, manicured hair banging into Silva’s nose. A hiccup of a noise spilling from his throat right before he came, followed by a gasping, “ _Ah—_ ”

The taste of warm cum coated the roof of his mouth and made him salivate unpleasantly. Righting himself, his back ached a bit; he would have grumbled if his mouth wasn’t occupied. He couldn’t spit it on the floor or the ground outside—it would leave evidence. He swallowed, the taste lingering and clinging to his teeth. Trying to clean his teeth with his tongue did nothing, his frown deepening the wrinkles around his mouth.

Illumi’s breath heaved, but he wasted no time as his eyes hungrily landed on Silva’s clothed erection. “You can put it in. I’m ready for—”

Silva turned away, unable to keep his wits about him properly while looking at Illumi’s eager face. “We’re even now. Put your clothes on, we have to get out of here.” He retied his belt for emphasis.

_Did he think Silva was just going to shove in without lubrication? What exactly was his plan?_

“But—”

Crossing his arms, he flexed his shoulders, trying to chase the whine out of his ears. Even if this wasn’t the worst possible time and place, he’d already had fun at his son’s expense once. That was more than enough. “The security guard could wake up at any second. Someone may have _heard you_ and are on their way to investigate.” The entire assignment had been silent compared to Illumi’s cries of ‘Papa,’ and he couldn’t bear to think of how far it had echoed. “We’re leaving.”

Illumi nodded, dropping his legs down, sliding off the desk, and accidentally knocking a pen holder off. _Might as well make more noise._

The mess on the desk and floor was passable as having been from the impassioned lovers. The thought made his face heat up. He couldn’t believe he’d really laid Illumi on a strange desk during an assignment and pleasured him to orgasm in a bout of _intentional_ infidelity this time. He groaned, feeling just as slimy as the two snuffed out lives on the bed. Their dead, glassy eyes had witnessed the head of the Zoldyck family orally pleasure his oldest son.

Illumi dressed quickly, hair flipping around energetically as he was unable to contain the smile on his lips. It made Silva feel better than he cared to admit.

In his hazy, euphoric brain Illumi was probably thinking of future encounters this would lead to, but Silva intended to have a conversation with him later. A conversation that was long overdue, that could have caused this entire incident to be avoided. But even after the conversation, he had a bad feeling about what happened when Illumi Zoldyck got his way; he was incorrigible enough when he was being outright denied, let alone after having been hand-fed in a moment of weakness.

 

Tsubone was waiting five miles down the road to pick them up. They both got in the backseat, Illumi’s quiet smile still plastered on his face. He hadn’t even retied his tie correctly, he looked sloppy: hair sticking up, wearing the marks on his neck proudly, his expensive clothes wrinkled from sitting in a heap on the floor. The partition was up, so they were safe to discuss what had happened, but Silva was exhausted. He pressed his face into his hands and inhaled the residual scent of the dead man’s cologne beneath the odor of Illumi’s semen on his breath, desperately wanting a shower and mouthwash.

“How is your leg?”

Silva would have been happy riding in silence the entire way home.

“Actually, it hasn’t hurt in quite some time now.” He bit the pad of his finger, watching the blood bubble up like normal; as he licked the blood away, it didn’t keep gushing. Coagulating properly. “The ability must have finally worn off.”

“Good.” He moved closer to Silva until their biceps met, despite the backseat being plenty big enough for them to sit without touching. “When we get home, we could—”

“No. And I needn’t remind you not to tell anyone about this. None of it.”

Illumi put his hands in his lap, lacing and unlacing his fingers. Letting the silence linger and the streetlamps light the backseat in flashes. Any kind of hesitation was a glaring red flag from him.

“Illumi.”

His hands settled, clasping each other tightly. He finally met his father’s face, looking up until his hairline was in Silva’s direct line of sight. The same expression he always made when confessing something he had done wrong. “Mother cornered me and said you were lying to her about something. She demanded to know what it was and where you were last night. You know how Mother is when she detects a lie.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“Ah! But,” he said, laying his head on Silva’s shoulder. His hair swished down and tickled Silva’s bicep in the darkness of the car like a clutch of spiders crawling up his arm. “It’s okay. She said it was fine.”

“What?”

“Mm. She said it’s okay. It’s not cheating since it’s just me.”

Once he blinked away the absolute shock of the words coming out of his son’s mouth, it began to register in his brain as being exactly like something Kikyo would say. She and Illumi were the same way—family was everything to the point of merging; her sons were an extension of herself. When Illumi was still in his clinging phase, Silva would grow irritated that his constant presence in their bed was stopping them from becoming intimate, but she’d shrugged and said she wouldn’t mind doing it in front of him. He was their blood. He belonged to her, same as all her children. She didn’t feel jealous sharing her husband with what she felt was her property.

The guilt in his stomach grew simultaneously heavier and lighter, a boulder with wings that kept knocking around in his tired body. Wanting to believe in this justification despite it being something he shouldn’t just accept.

“Your mother isn’t always right, you know,” he said more for himself than Illumi. She’d convinced Silva to adapt a lot of her worldviews and decisions since they’d married, way more than Zeno had been happy about. He’d stretched his own values to their limits for her. Silva wasn’t sure if this fact made it more or less difficult to accept this extreme perspective—once your wife had already influenced you to make decisions regarding the torture and treatment of your children, it was hard to draw the line at her loose definitions of infidelity. Especially when _not_ doing so meant you were cheating scum.

Illumi ignored that comment. “She thanked me for taking care of your needs while she was asleep.” His voice worked in levels of unintentional subtlety that the rest of him lacked. Even though his syncopation was that of a statement, it was definitely an offer.

“This was a one-time thing, Illumi.” His voice was weak. Illumi had worn him down to nothing. His own foolish self had worn him down to nothing. He couldn’t wait to get into his own bed, sober, and sleep for twelve hours.

 _Oh. He did have the day off tomorrow, didn’t he?_ Maybe it didn’t make him as giddy as Keffeld, but that sudden realization felt warm in his chest.

“Can I lay my head down?” Illumi asked, Silva’s every word had dissolved before reaching his ears, repelled by the intense thoughts ruminating in his brain. But Silva felt his entire body relax anyway. _A day off._ He had the day off tomorrow.

“Mm.” It was affirmative enough, and Illumi scooted his hips over towards the door, adjusting his hair as he leaned over and laid his head on Silva’s thigh. They’d left the city at some point, the road getting slightly rougher, Illumi’s now-unobstructed window was full of country fields speeding by. Silva reached up and uncovered the moonroof, stars overhead becoming even more visible as they left civilization.

Illumi turned onto his back to look up, empty eyes catching sharply on the light from the moon. It was disquieting how well he could see Illumi’s head resting on his thigh, dark hair pooled in the space between his legs. Part of him wanted the darkness back, so he slipped his tired eyes closed, leaning his head back against the headrest and feeling the car move beneath them.

It had been a long time since he’d let Illumi be this clingy, but it was a good compromise to all of the things Illumi wanted to do instead. Maybe placating him was worth a try, since punishment clearly hadn’t been effective. Besides, his hand had already moved on its own to the thick, soft bunch of hair he’d grabbed when he punished him. Just putting his fingers through it was comforting. It felt like an apology, even though he wasn’t sure he even meant to apologize.

“Father.” Back over on his side, his breath was warm against Silva’s leg even through the material of his pants.

“Yes?” Something inside him deflated a bit at knowing ‘Papa’ was dead and gone, reburied in the dark crevice they’d beaten into him as a boy.

“This was the best baby shower yet.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave me a comment!! Gimme a heart, a quote you liked, predictions, something you'd like to see, your opinion - anything and everything is appreciated. I love you all!!
> 
> Thank you for all of your love and support, you can find out more about me and my writing on https://illukillua.tumblr.com and https://twitter.com/shiroppan
> 
> Love,  
> Brocon ❤️❤️


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